


Three Months and Then This

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [48]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, Heartache, Letters, London, Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts, New York City, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 02:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20056258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: Gregory Lestrade left Mycroft Holmes and is living in New York City. Three months of nothing and then this...





	Three Months and Then This

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Chat
> 
> These last few one-shots have turned into something of a continuing story. While each can stand on its own, based on its prompt, if it fits, I will be reordering them around to fit the tale chronologically as needed. This mini series begins at Part 45 with ["Out of Time"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886461) and continues through here.

“It’s a mess and I want him investigated – it’s just a little too neat. We try it again tomorrow Reyes. See you in the morning.”

“All right Greg. We will get the bastard next time. See you in the morning.”

Greg waited until he saw the Facebook video call had fully ended before he put down his mobile _no, Lestrade, cell phone_, to charge. 

Gregory Lestrade had had _a day_.

He had testified in court against a crime ring that had dealing going from San Francisco and New York City in The States through Madrid, Glasgow and Minsk. They had one of the crime bosses in the bag – _in the bag(!)-_ then the entire thing fell apart on a technicality. A rookie cop in Dresden had not followed procedure to the letter. Unfortunately, the Dresden piece was the fulcrum on which the other pieces balanced and as a result failed.

Lestrade really wanted to take down Alexandre König. The things that bastard did, the things he had done… Oh he needed to be wiped off the face of the earth. Alas, the smug bastard turned in his seat and grinned, bloody _grinned_ at him and Lt. Luis Reyes when it all came crashing down and it was evident he was getting away with nothing more than deportation. It was not a total loss, several smaller bosses were taken down, but…

_Stop it, Greg. You know from experience you can’t win them all. You helped put a huge dent in the ring, better than nothing. _

He was doing well with the new job all things considered. He had hit the ground running when he agreed to spearhead the international task force from the States, but he could already see a comfortable pattern forming. The physical move to New York City had been relatively painless as far as international moves go. He was fully ensconced in his new flat.

_No it’s called an apartment here_, he reminded himself.

He had a lovely view of the river and the rest of the city beyond it. He lived in a nice neighborhood that had a nice vibe. It was the middle of winter now but hints of the coming spring were already in the air.

Still, he blinked a lot when he looked out of a random window and viewed a foreign skyline.

Yes, clock at Grand Central Station. Yes, Empire State Building. Yes, Freedom Tower.

But no Big Ben. No London Eye. No Gherkin.

The East River is not the Thames.

_Because there’s no place like… No, don’t go there._

He reminded himself that he has only been in this strange yet wonderful city for three months. He’s going to need considerably more time than that to feel at home anywhere but Londontown even with its demons.

No, not plural, just the one.

Mycroft David Alexander Holmes. The demon he chased that eventually captured his heart.

The Iceman. The demon he then let toy with it in the hopes he’d remember his heart was important.

Antarctica. The demon that then ignored it seemingly assured that heart was set. And in truth it was, but as the old U2 song goes… _One love, get to share it, leaves you darling, if you don't care for it_.

When he showed Mycroft the email that he had accepted their offer and they in turn accepted him, Mycroft gave a curt nod and behaved as though he saw nothing.

When Greg had moved out of their home and began to set things in motion, Mycroft said nothing.

When the goodbye party was thrown in his honor, Mycroft did nothing.

When he informed Mycroft of the flight that would take him away forever, Mycroft let him go as if he were nothing.

Mycroft David Alexander Holmes was the demon that let him walk away. No, not walk away. Gregory ran from Mycroft, bloody flew across an ocean to get away from him.

Greg went back to London once. That had been a mistake he was not repeating anytime soon.

One of his people on the task force knew of his relationship with Mycroft. When something from London’s MI6 came across their bailiwick, he had Reyes, who had worked with Mycroft before, handle it. It turned out to be nothing consequential, but Greg knew the extent of Mycroft’s power when he chooses to exert it.

It was the most damning reason why Greg had made the decision to relocate. Apparently, keeping him happy and the two of them together was not something in which Mycroft wanted to exert his power.

When he settled in Greg had immediately set up his Skype and Facetime as well as had a landline put in. It was habit, his first instinct was to reach out to Mycroft. He stopped himself just in time. Those numbers were no longer his to call anymore, so he waited.

When the first week passed in New York City without a single word from Mycroft Greg was devasted.

He had chatted online and on the phone with Sherlock and John. He Skyped with Sally and Molly and Facetimed a few others since his relocation. He tactfully did not ask about him, and they all just as tactfully did not tell him anything. Until yesterday. He and Sherlock were Skyping at what he knew was three in the morning London time, but Sherlock never kept normal hours.

> Sherlock: How are you _really_ doing, Greg?
> 
> He was taken aback by the question, but he knew he could not lie to him. So he told him.
> 
> Greg: You know those first couple of weeks after I moved out of our townhouse, _out of Mycroft’s townhouse_, to a hotel?
> 
> Sherlock: Yes.
> 
> Greg: I spent the first couple of days in that room and wondered how the bloody hell was I going to get through another second without him. For all that he and I had been through to get to each other, to have to walk away from him like that...? Sherlock, I had never imagined a person could be so unhappy, let alone that that person would ever be me or ever because of him.
> 
> Sherlock: So, you dove into preparation for the big move.
> 
> Greg: Yes, I had to. I needed to keep my mind occupied because shockingly most of the criminals in London chose then to behave. It was so calm, so _hateful_.
> 
> Sherlock had grinned knowing it was something he had said to Greg when he had been bored out of his skull.
> 
> Greg: Can you imagine being so miserable that you do not think you can get through another second of life without someone? But you know what happened?
> 
> He knew Sherlock knew what he was going to say, but he shook his head, the consulting detective’s dark curls gently swung with the move.
> 
> Greg: I looked up and a month passed. I realized I somehow got through those seconds. That I got through the minutes and the hours. That I got through the days, through the weeks and by God, the next thing I knew I had lived through an entire two months without him.
> 
> Greg: I know I am not fine by any stretch of the imagination. I know that. But I am living and without him. That’s how I am. And in the interim, I did what I always did, do what I always do – my job. That’s how I am.

He said his good-bye then and signed-off.

Greg reminded himself that he had lived happily before Mycroft. He only had to get back to doing that again.

He would be okay again. He would be happy again.

_As soon as my heart let me. _

Thus, halfway into his third month away from London he turned from his window, poured himself a stiff drink and was about to look over some work when he saw the envelope by the door. Apparently, the post service in the New York City had some of the same hiccups as London. He occasionally found a neighbor's mail in his box, and neighbors found mail for him in theirs. This was a case of the latter as a neighbor had simply slipped the envelope under the door. Standard gesture, when the envelope was thin enough, otherwise they knocked or rang the bell.

Greg stopped short as he drew near the envelope.

It was postmarked from London. There was no return address, but he would not need it and the sender knew it. It was hand addressed to him in a script Greg thought likely never see again.

The drink glass nearly slipped from his fingers as he recognized Mycroft’s elegant cursive.

He had not given his erstwhile lover his new address and every fiber of his being knew Mycroft had asked no one for it, he would not have to.

Greg gulped the drink knowing he would need the fortification, placed the glass on the side table and picked-up the envelope. He picked up the envelope and held it close as he took it across the room and sat at his desk. He simply stared at it for a long while, his fingers ran along the fine material.

He recognized the pale crème Bohemian stationary, and the orange-brown ink.

_The Mont Blanc? It’s in our-his home office, he was home…_

Greg reached in the desk for the letter opener and gently slit the short end of the envelope letting the tri-folded sheet slip onto his hand.

“Oh, you bastard…”

Greg sighed gently as a light leather scent hit him and confirmed his question. Mycroft had used the Mont Blanc Elixir Parfumeur. The ink had the scent of leather to it that reminded him a little of Mycroft’s expensive cologne and it took everything Greg had to not crush the paper in his hands as all manners of memory brought on by the scent overwhelmed him.

“No… No. No! NO!” Greg flung the sheet to the desk top unread and walked away. He found his glass and made himself another drink.

With a determined effort he walked back to his desk and picked up the folded sheet without opening it. He did not see that a lot was written. In fact, he could barely discern the coloring that indicated writing at all.

_Three months of nothing and then this? How dare he! _

He carefully slotted the sheet back into it envelope and then tossed the envelope and the letter opener in his desk and slammed the drawer closed.

He woke his computer and pulled up Skype. The icons of his contacts appeared. Only then did he remember he had removed Mycroft from there for exactly this reason, to avoid temptation. He minimized the app and then started on the work he had intended to do before he was distracted.

Two hours later he managed to get some work done even though he had stopped opened the draw, looked at the envelope, touched the envelope, and held it in his hands, but would not take the letter itself out…

The tone of a Skype call video call coming in sounded on the computer. With trepidation he restored the app to size and saw that it was John Watson. It was nearly half one in the morning London time. Every instinct in him knew if he answered and Sherlock was there, the consulting detective would know he saw the letter. He would know on sight how badly it affected him, and that he has not read it yet.

_No, Sherlock, you do not get to tell him how you think I looked. Sorry, John if this is an honest chat, but I can’t right now._

Greg let the app go to voicemail and walked away from his desk.

_Fuck you, Mycroft Holmes. I’m not doing this. I won’t read it. Fuck. You. _


End file.
